in the fight I find my name
by ScribeOfRED
Summary: Shiro doesn't need to look around his bridge to know that, while skilled, there isn't a crew member here who can take on five Alteans and win. It's a good thing they don't have to. Or: the fight we should have gotten when Honerva's controlled Alteans stormed Atlas's bridge.


**Of all the many possible fix-it fics to write for the travesty that was S8, this was the one my brain refused to give up on, because Shiro = Champion = far too skilled to get _backhanded across his own bridge_. C'mon.**

* * *

"Sir, the Alteans have escaped their cell!"

Veronica's voice is panicked in a way it rarely is, instantly drawing Shiro's focus to her. "Get me eyes on them," he orders as his thoughts jump tracks, speeding away from one crisis and toward another. Why are the Alteans moving now when they've had other chances before this? What's changed? What can they achieve that they couldn't until now?

Hang on.

A glance at one of his screens is enough to make the desired information appear, which reveals the Blue Lion stationary in its hanger. Maybe the Alteans hope to steal it, deny Voltron the opportunity to swing the fight away from Honerva's advantage.

Shiro's opening his mouth to order the Lions' hangers sealed when the bridge's main display lights up with one of _Atlas_'s security feeds, just in time for the alpha bridge crew to watch as one—_one_—of the Alteans shoulder-checks a reinforced quadrant-separating door hard enough to rip it out of its moorings and slam it into the wall opposite with enough force to make the thick metal crumple.

There's a disbelieving murmur somewhere behind his right shoulder; then the bridge's heavier blast door slams down behind him and the locks engage. Not on Shiro's order, as seems to be _Atlas_'s tendency, something he plans to explore later, when they aren't in the middle of fighting a war on two fronts.

Besides, the Alteans aren't heading for the hangers—or not by an efficient route, and he's known Alteans long enough now to recognize they prize their efficiency. No, they're heading this way, he knows they are.

But why? Disabling _Atlas_ would be more effective from engineering, except—

Except.

His arm gives an odd little pulse as he looks down at it, all clean white-and-gray panels and smooth lines. Except _Atlas_'s true power source isn't located via engineering. Honerva knows so much she shouldn't, it isn't a stretch to believe she knows this too.

"Epsilon alert," he demands, and very near before he finishes speaking the entire bridge floods with orange light, bright enough to see by but unsettling enough that he can practically feel everyone around him tense. They've only drilled this scenario before, never actually had to operate under it in the midst of battle.

No time like the present for fiery trials.

He doesn't need to look around his bridge to know that, while skilled, there isn't a crew member here who can take on five Alteans and win. It's a good thing they don't have to.

"Veronica, Tracy, k'Keff, eyes forward. Keep us relevant and dangerous. Everyone else, weapons primed. Shoot to kill."

The bridge goes quiet in a way he never anticipated it would during the fight to protect the continued existence of every possible reality. Then, from Veronica, a cautious, "Sir—"

"Not now," he snaps, eyes narrowed, staring at the displayed security feed, watching in real time as the Alteans brute force their way ever closer to _Atlas_'s heart. He studies them. Memorizes movements: repeated footwork, hands used, apparent hierarchy. Yes, they're part of an endangered species, but war is war. Sparing their lives will mean nothing if it leads to the destruction of everything. Strike where you can when you can, and strike swift and sure.

Veronica persists. "But, sir, should we really—"

"You have your orders."

Again the bridge hesitates, oddly motionless against the backdrop of the three Lions embroiled in the chaos of battle visible outside the windows. Inside, the mood tilts in a way Shiro hasn't experienced since he found himself stepping into the role of captain. A shadow lurks on the edge of his perception, threatening danger, _them_ versus _him_. His right hand fists into a solid metal ball, and it's the absence of familiar whining servos that knocks his thoughts back into the present and away from swelling memories of deadly arena life.

He didn't even realize those thoughts and instincts were still so close to the surface, is a little bit nauseated to discover they are, especially this way. He's a part of his crew and they're a part of him. Enough enemies exist outside of this bridge to last a dozen dozen lifetimes—he doesn't need to create more for himself.

So he exhales a long breath as slow as he can manage while cognizant of the fact they're at war, does some rapid-fire calculations based on the Alteans' speed versus how far they have to travel to get up here, determines he has a few moments to spare. "They're here to steal _Atlas_'s power for Honerva. We can't let that happen."

If nothing else, they have to understand this.

After a second that seems to stretch out beyond the confines of space itself, it's Iverson—steady, reliable Iverson—who stands and palms his sidearm. "Captain's right. Right now it's us or them. We didn't survive the Galra's invasion of our home planet to die now that we're needed."

Having the support of someone who went through the occupation of Earth is invaluable: the mood tilts back, slow but sure, a poignant reminder of why it's so important to keep these people close around him, as a point of connection with them that he'll never have due to being out in space while Earth was overrun.

He nods, doing his best to project the same firm but understanding energy as Iverson, even as he keeps one eye on the security feed still being displayed. They have only seconds to go now. "Remember: they're faster and stronger than humans. Don't hesitate."

The visibly reluctant half of his crew reach for their weapons, proving they've either watched or actively trained with Allura. Good. Maybe they're taking this seriously after all.

Just in time—he turns when there's a horrible impact against the bridge door, hard enough that the metal caves inward. Again, a crash, a second dent, larger.

Shiro flexes his hands, metal and flesh closing around dry recycled air as his focus narrows. They're going to come in fast, try to rush the attack. He's going to have to be faster, especially since he can't be stronger.

A third collision and the door buckles, metal screaming as it's stretched nearly thin enough to see through. Shiro tenses, almost leaps forward, instinct to bring the fight to them rather than waiting surging to the surface, but he manages to curb the impulse—and good thing too, because this door, like the others, is ripped straight from the walls and would've slammed into him if he'd moved too soon.

As his mangled bridge door falls, there exists a single moment, hanging bright and clear and still, crystalized outside of time, in which he gets a good look at the Alteans: five, tall, eyes glowing a sickening yellow that makes dark things slither cold and slimy through Shiro's brain.

They have Galra eyes.

He's faced many Galra down over the last few years, but he isn't expecting it here, now, and it makes him freeze for a second, has him falling back and tripping over the dual instincts to not attack for fear of the repercussions and to attack with every bit of his strength to bring the empire _down_.

Again his hesitation saves him: the suspended moment shatters when pulses of energy streak the air between him and his Altean-Galran-enemies. Only now does he remember he has support in the form of his crew, who are succeeding where he is failing.

He's lost his edge.

The realization hits him at the same moment one of the Alteans hits the floor, smoke curling up from the blackened holes blown through their body. It's true, though: he doesn't fight against real enemies anymore, not in a way that's truly tangible, hasn't since he took on Sendak, and now it's going to cost him—or worse, it's going to cost his crew. Limbs, lives, doesn't matter. All losses are unacceptable. Not on his ship, not while he still draws breath.

The death of their companion doesn't stop the remaining four Alteans—they throw themselves through the deadly cloud of pulsing energy, single minded in their purpose. Shiro can smell their singed clothing and hair as he leaps forward to meet them, teeth bared against the bubbling memories rising up through the middle of his brain: arena, fighting, blood and bloodlust, hurt pain agony—

Yellow eyes gleam with wicked light, and Shiro only just manages to sidestep the first blow, yanking his right arm back from its own ineffective swing before anyone can take advantage of his gratuitous overextension. The fact his arm now floats lends it significant range, but only if he utilizes it properly.

Pivoting on one heel, he feints left; then, when the Altean bites, brings his right arm to bear with as much strength as he can gather, slamming the reinforced points of his knuckles just below one glowing eye.

The Altean drops, hard and fast enough that his companions don't have a chance to compensate. One of them trips over the body—the first death on _Atlas_'s bridge, Shiro notes in a small, far away-feeling section of his mind as he grabs the off-balance woman's windmilling arm and _pulls_, dragging her down to the floor as well as he lights up his arm and—

Except his arm stays dark. No fuchsia glow, no vicious surges of quintessence, no radiating heat. Is it broken? Did he damage it, use it up, wear it out? Why is it white and... blue.

Oh.

He barely stops himself from reeling back, remembers just in time that he's holding one of the Alteans down. He meant to burn her—was planning to grab her face and let his Galra-given arm melt right through the Galra-yellow eyes, until her screams and struggles turned to blackened ash. But he can't do that, not with Allura's design, and it's occurring to him that he's put himself in a terribly vulnerable position, trying to hold one Altean with superior strength down while two more loom above him, unrestricted.

Several more shots rip through the air over his head; one of the Alteans grunts over the dull thudding impact, but he doesn't go down. It would be concerning, but Shiro has his hands full, quite literally, as he does his best to keep the pinned Altean from escaping. She's growling as she pushes up against his hold, a feral noise that grinds against the ragged edges of his brain, threatens to upend him completely, but if there's one thing he learned in the arena, it was how to keep the advantage against stronger foes, and so he brings both his weight and the unnatural strength of his arm to bear, keeping her trapped beneath him.

It's a stalemate, one he might be able to win given enough time, but time is something that's running out for every one of them. Movement above him makes his instincts howl, and without thinking he snaps his right arm around, catching the fist aimed at his head. His left hand wraps around the throat of the woman he's over, trying to cut off her air supply, but she's writhing on the floor, making it nearly impossible to maintain a proper grip.

Between trying to hold down one Altean and hold off another, he has no mental space for anything else—which is probably why his senses don't blare a warning until hands fist around his collar and haul him up so they can throw him bodily across the bridge.

Flying is not an unnatural state for him—he's spent a nontrivial percentage of the last eight years in the air. Even so, it's obvious he hasn't spent nearly enough time getting tossed around in combat recently, because his instinct is still to kick on the jetpack he doesn't have and launch himself back into the fight.

But he hasn't survived as long as he has by relying on his initial impulses alone. There are alternate pathways seared into his brain, hardwired contingencies for just about any physical situation he finds himself in, and it's via one of these secondary impulses his right hand lashes out and catches the edge of his console as he flies over it.

The floating nature of this new arm allows for incredible range, though he has to be deliberate in his use of it, since it isn't a natural frame of mind. He's practiced, though, while exercising and during daily life, trying to imprint upon his mind that he has extended mobility now, and he feels he's done fairly well so far.

It's enough to save him from being flung across his own bridge, at least.

_His_ bridge. Filled with _his_ crew. _His_ people to protect however he can.

Once his hand is secure around the console, he tightens the connection between arm and port, gritting his teeth as he forcibly pulls his body in yet another direction it doesn't want to go. This arm doesn't hurt at the base like the Galra one did, grafted into bone and muscle without regard for long-term use or comfort, but momentum and mass are still at work, and he can feel his body strain with the effort of folding himself over into a tight tuck so he can curl his feet beneath him in order to land on the console.

He balances there for a moment, just long enough to raise his head and mentally graph the position of everyone on his bridge. The Alteans are still clustered on the central dais, one dead there, another dead near the gaping doorway, three alive, Galra-yellow eyes burning bright as they stare at him.

And if they're watching him, they aren't going after his crew or after _Atlas_'s crystal. Every second he can delay them is invaluable—he's now a direct hinderance to Haggar's plans.

A dark satisfaction burns hot in his chest. _Good_. She has been getting her way far too much recently. Has been getting her way ever since she stood cackling over the shredded remains of his arm, _his_ arm, the one she played a significant part in him losing in the first place.

Honerva now or not, she'll always be Haggar to him, the Galra's witch, a looming shadow in his mind, icy, unrelenting pain and hissed declarations that haunted—still haunt—the darkest corners of his thoughts of how he's the Galra's greatest weapon.

He's fine with being a weapon, he's been one for long enough now to accept it's his role in life, but he is not and never will be _their_ weapon.

Having his jetpack would be nice—he could use the extra bursts of speed and weight it granted him in combat—but he'll make use of anything he can get right now. So it's with a snarl he kicks off the console hard, again launches toward the Alteans.

And finds himself staring down Galra eyes once more. They look wrong in Altean faces, too big, too flat, too sinister. And they seem to be growing, getting impossibly larger as he gets closer, like they're going to swallow him up and drop him into a pit of darkness he barely managed to claw his way out of the first time.

Not again. Not him, not his crew. _No one_.

The edges of the bridge smear slightly, leaving the sulfuric yellow of his enemies' eyes in full focus. Three against one—not the worst odds he's found himself up against.

He lifts both arms, clamping his hands around the nearest Altean's shoulders as he uses his momentum-increased weight to force her back, then snaps a knee up into her stomach while she's off balance. There's the unhappy wheeze of a forced exhale as she bends over, but she doesn't go down, instead hooking one of her arms around the underside of his thigh and yanking up, righting her own balance and simultaneously trying to upset his.

It's a predictable enough counter, so he tightens his grip on her shoulders and pushes off the ground, uses the leverage her arm provides to rise into a handstand, at the apex of which he fists his hands in her clothing and twists, relying on his right arm's augmented strength to throw her bodily toward the empty back of the bridge. "_Shoot her_!"

There's the slightest delay—too long, _never hesitate_—before the bridge lights up with orange-tinted pulses. The shot Altean's eyes glow brighter as she shrieks, an unnaturally high sound vibrating between the normal tones. It's horrible, piercing straight to the center of Shiro's brain, and only the sight of the two Alteans flanking him keep him from giving in to the impulse to protect his hearing from the noise.

His crew isn't so disciplined; he can see them in the smudged edges of his vision, the way they're dropping their weapons and clamping their hands to their ears, leaving themselves vulnerable.

No.

Shiro gathers his splintering focus, his swelling anger, draws them up into a tight, hot ball, a miniature star blazing away in his chest, fueling his determination. He's already three-fifths of the way through this fight, two-fifths thanks to his crew, and it's time he pays them back, protects them when they can't protect themselves.

The shot Altean's scream tapers off, leaving the mind-rattling echoes to ricochet back and forth across the bridge as she slides, limp, down the wall. Shiro doesn't watch her, already drawing his right arm back as he twists to the left, automatically calculating speed and distance and trajectory as he lines up to crush in the skull of the Altean beside him—

Only to be met by a handful of lightning, arcing a brilliant white from the Altean's crooked fingers.

Shiro automatically aborts his punch, instead throwing his right arm up to deflect the worst of the blinding energy, but he's off balance, momentum swinging the wrong direction, and the bolts strike him in the face with enough force to throw him back a step, sizzling hot as they sear their way into his skull and down across his shoulders.

Shiro screams before he can stop himself, because it _hurts_, like there's acid eating through his skin, into his muscles, burning across the surface of his bones, all the way down to the very core of him, the place where no one else can touch. No one except—

_Haggar_.

This is her doing. He could die a million deaths and come back to a body she's never even touched a million more—nothing will make him forget the bitter, oily taste of her magic, the way it slides slick and corrosive through his mind, plundering his accrued knowledge, twisting his thoughts, ripping holes through any memory that she alone deems dangerous to the Galra or helpful to him or even just unnecessary.

Something inside him shrieks: an instinctive and immediate revolt of mind, body, and soul against going a second time through such a gross violation of his very sense of self. The scummy residue from the first time still hasn't gone away, not entirely—and now he's terrified he'll be stuck with it forever. Lashing out doesn't help when he has no mental equivalent to Altean alchemy and is too far away to cause any physical damage, but it doesn't stop him from trying. It never has. To fight is to live.

The tendrils slithering against the boundaries of his mind change, grow thick, firm, _aware_, and something within him turns over, sickened by the realization that he remembers enough of this to identify the acrid spark of her recognition. The pressure increases, dry ice against his brain, hot and cold, a suffocating point of agony he can't fight off, smoking, burning tattered holes that he has no hope of repairing—

_No_, not this—not again, he can't—never be their weapon—never—refuses—

Ears ring, vision blurs, senses fail him one by one. He feels like he's floating, weightless, drifting away from his magic-ravaged body and up, up into the sky: the safest place he knows for his wounded sense of self.

It isn't until he slams into something metal with enough force to rattle his brain loose from the witch's hold that he realizes he's been thrown across the bridge. Again. In one way it's annoying—he's supposed to be better than this—but mostly he's just grateful for the unexpected mercy of Haggar's attention not following him here.

He's free.

Only when the last few sparks finish biting at his skin and he can reel his mind in closer to his body again does he determines where "here" is: slumped against the edge of the helmsman's console, currently devoid of Coran. The metal is cool beneath his shoulders, familiar in a way that makes him shiver for a moment before he can muscle past the initial impulse of the witch and her vile methods. He's on the _Atlas_, not held in one of her labs; he's surrounded (mostly) by friends and not people who want to vivisect him in one manner or another.

His vision is taking a rather long time to coalesce into something sharper than the hazy blurs—a few smeared colors at most—that are moving somewhere in front of him. The Alteans trying to access _Atlas_'s crystal now that he's no longer hindering them: he knows for certain when he feels another odd pulse through his arm, like a gentle tug somewhere deep beneath the metal casing.

He pushes himself up on one elbow, blinking in an effort to clear his sight, only to freeze, shoulders knotting at the distinctive click of an energy weapon priming directly to his right.

"Sir?" Veronica's voice, quiet in his ear, followed by a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

He blinks again, harder. It seems to help a little, and he frowns as he motions toward where he can make out the rough shape of her hand wrapped around her pistol. "You gonna use that?"

She makes an incredulous sound that reminds him of Lance. "And risk blowing us all up? Yeah, right."

He looks back toward the central console. Even with his fuzzy sight the blue glow of the crystal is impossible to miss—and, unless he's mistaken, intensifying. Which means it's either pouring out an increasing amount of power or the Alteans are starting to glow as well—or both. "_No_—"

His hair stands on end: a single instant's warning before a thunderous roar fills the air, drowning his voice out. Propelled by instinct, he forces himself upright, ignores the way his whole body aches, like he's been seared from the inside out, in favor of throwing his arms around Veronica, protecting her from the tendrils of energy-intensified magic that crackle across the bridge before they condense into a single stream of power. Staring at them is like trying to stare unprotected into the heart of a sun, and Shiro ducks his head at an angle, still trying to watch the two Alteans who are siphoning _his_ ship's power away, sending it blazing across the expanse of space and feeding it into the witch's ship.

Shiro snarls, a wordless sound of frustration at his own helplessness. Veronica is right: trying to stop them now could damage the crystal, could even trigger _Atlas_'s destruction, but sitting by and doing nothing feels the same as actively aiding Haggar's plans to destroy reality itself. For perhaps the first time, he wishes for Altean blood, an aptitude for alchemy, _something_ he can use to fight against what's happening.

The sound of energy being forcibly dragged through _Atlas_'s systems rises in pitch, sharpening until it's impossible not to hear as a scream. _Atlas_ doesn't hurt the same way the Lions hurt, there is no acute awareness of specific damage, but Shiro can sense the ship's power levels plummeting with each passing moment, dropping into the red and continuing to fall, down, down...

And then _Atlas_ shudders like a ship of her size _shouldn't_, vibrating like she's about to shake herself apart, and for just a moment Shiro wonders if this is it, if they've failed, doomed all of eternity for every possible reality.

(And even now he can't think of realities without hearing it in Slav's voice, as if he doesn't have enough to deal with right now.)

_Atlas_ gives one last shiver before the beam of energy splutters and fades out. Shiro looks up just in time to watch the two Alteans slump to the floor; then the ship's screens go dark, followed by the crystal itself, plunging the entire bridge into almost total darkness.

Shiro's skin crawls—only bad things live in the dark—and he lifts his hand to provide some light, then freezes when he remembers he can't. Scowling at his lapse (again), he gives his head a single hard shake, trying to knock those old memories back down to the bottom of the pile where they belong.

"Sir?" Veronica asks, drawing his attention back to her. His vision has cleared again and must be adjusting to the light filtering in through the windows, because he can identify the outline of her features. "Are you okay?"

Not really—he's in pain, his mind feels dark and gross like it hasn't for months, and he's failed everyone by not stopping the Alteans like he should have, _could_ have. "Of course," he lies. "Have we lost all power?"

Her glasses glint, yellow and white, reflecting an explosion transpiring somewhere nearby as she turns her head, studying him for longer than he'd prefer before she angles her chin toward her station. "Hard to say without checking. Um. Can you...?"

He blinks before working out she wants out from the way he's still shielding her. "Oh. Right." None of the Alteans look like they're going anywhere in a hurry, so he lowers his arms, trying without much success to ignore the way Veronica only relaxes once she's shuffled back a couple steps, the way she keeps a portion of her attention on him even as she taps at her console.

A swift glance around the bridge reveals she isn't the only one looking his way; the rest of his bridge staff are watching them—no, _him_, like they're appraising him. Calculating. Weighing risks. Like predators. Or rather like _prey_.

A chill wraps clawed fingers around his heart, and he has to fight to keep his face impassive and his shoulders straight as he turns to face them. "Status report. Is everyone okay?"

Movement ripples across the dim bridge, and it's a mark of his own failings that he doesn't initially realize he's tilted his head to watch everyone at once, tracking everything they're doing. The declining whine and click of his crew's weapons powering down unstrings only a few of his many knotted nerves.

"Appears so," Iverson says after a few coiled moments, shoving his pistol back into its holster, though he leaves his hand over it.

Shiro doesn't want to have to ask him what threat he's worried about right now. Doesn't have to—the wary expressions are evidence enough, furtive glances aimed his way that drag like knives over his skin. They hurt; worse, they prevent him from relaxing, keeping his body taut and his instincts on high alert, even though he knows he's surrounded by friends.

It's a bit hard to remember when the bridge feels too small, crowding them all together and into his sudden need for space. He yearns abruptly for the expansive bridge of the _Castle_, how it had enough room to hold entire meetings and still feel open and airy, not tiny and dark and low ceilinged like _Atlas_'s bridge, filled with a sudden swelling of suspicion that Shiro isn't certain how to allay or circumvent, not while he's still hearing the echo of the witch's cackle between his ears.

But he can't run away, can't find some recessed corner of the ship to lick torn-open wounds in private. He's the captain: they _need_ him here, present and focused.

So he allows himself a single slow breath in which to shove every arena-learned behavior down somewhere around his feet—a breath that's interrupted by a sudden surge of power through _Atlas_'s systems, all the more noticeable for how empty the ship's reserves are. _Allura_, he realizes after a moment's concentration. She's opening a wormhole.

One lion back, another ready to head out, plus an entire Balmera. "We have a chance," he breathes as he watches the wormhole fold in on itself behind the enormous creature, because it's easier than meeting the eyes of his crew, than standing in sight of their judgment.

But he's stared down worse, and besides, their shaken trust won't be a problem if they don't actually succeed in saving all possible realities. Not that he has any intention of losing this battle just to escape what's certain to be an awkward confrontation for all parties involved, so he inhales, forces the aches and the uncertainties down somewhere the flickering-back-to-life lights won't be able to shine down upon, and turns to retake his place on the cleared dais. Stepping up onto it and sending the softly pulsing crystal back to its spot in the floor feels more like returning home than he expects. "Status report."

The hesitation before he receives an answer is shorter this time, and some of his crew are actually turning their backs on him as they check their powering-up stations. Not perfect, but he'll take it, is even grateful for it after putting his less trustworthy side on display. Still, he has no regrets of anything he did, even though he'll have to sort through his resurged arena behaviors—when they aren't fighting to remain the universes' best hope for salvation.


End file.
